Human Croquet
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: AU. It's August of 1916, and while war rages in Europe, Blaine Anderson's father has sent him away to reform school in Ohio. But while spoiled, roguish Blaine hates it there, he finds himself drawn to a mysterious bright eyed bad boy named Kurt.
1. Consider What You Might Have Found

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

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><p><em>Westerville, Ohio. August of 1916.<em>

His first impression of Kurt was that he was rather a wildcat.

Of course, he didn't know who he was, or his name. In fact, he still wasn't entirely sure where he was. He had just stepped through the thick double doors from the oppressive summer heat into the cool mustiness of the front hall, flanked on one side by his father's lawyer and the school administrator on the other. For a moment he stood there, blinking in the shadows as his eyes adjusted, and he heard the shrill shrieking echo through the once-grand atrium.

"You bastard! You broke my nose!"

"You deserved it!"

"I'm gonna kill you, you little quiff!"

His father's lawyer put a restraining hand on his shoulder as two teachers struggled past, each attempting to hold back a student. The bigger one was bleeding profusely from the nose, red spilling over his chin and already dirty shirt. The smaller one had a large red splotch across his otherwise white face, but there was a fire in his eyes as he fought the teacher holding him back.

"Don't you dare touch me!" he screamed, wrenching away at the grip on his arms. "Don't you dare touch me, Karofsky!"

The older, bloodied boy snarled and the teacher drew the thinner boy back. "Kurt, don't make this worse for yourself," he warned. The teacher glanced up apologetically at the school administrator. "I'm sorry, sir. They were fighting."

"I can see that, Mr. Schuester," the administrator said. "Take David to the infirmary and send Kurt to solitary."

The teachers obeyed, dragging their unwilling captives away down the hall. The administrator turned to him as he stared, shocked into silence. "Welcome to Dalton Reform, Mr. Anderson," he said dryly. "Follow me, please."

Blaine obeyed, his father's lawyer still keeping a tight hold on his shoulder. The halls were dim and musty; the large windows were so caked with dirt and their curtains so weighted with dust that it did nothing to brighten the darkness. "Dalton began as an elite boys' school," the administrator explained without prompting. "However, Westerville isn't necessarily considered the poshest of places, and few wealthy families chose to send their sons here. Our charter changed about fifteen years ago."

He pushed open the door at the end of the hall and ushered them inside. Blaine stepped into the office, still clutching the handle of his monogrammed leather satchel in his hot, sweating hands. It was nicer in here, cleaner and brighter. The desk was adorned with a polished name plate engraved with the name _Phillip Trevelyan, _gleaming under the light of a green-shaded electric lamp. Dr. Trevelyan sat down behind the desk and gestured for Blaine to take a seat.

His father's lawyer pulled a stack of papers out of his valise. "You'll see Mr. Anderson has everything in order for his son's transfer," he said, handing the paperwork over.

Dr. Trevelyan scanned the pages. "I was curious when Mr. Anderson sent the wire inquiring about openings at this school," he said. "It's highly unusual."

"Blaine made an unfortunate habit of acting out at his previous schools," the lawyer informed him. "Sneaking around, smoking on campus, betting in after-hours poker games. Several…illicit relationships."

Dr. Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. Blaine stared him down, his chin raised.

"When he was caught in the middle of a study period with a flask, the school turned him out," the lawyer continued. "His father wishes to teach him a lesson, so rather than send him to yet another private school, he decided a term or two in a country reform school would do him some good."

"And there are no reform schools in upstate New York?" Dr. Trevelyan inquired.

"Mr. Anderson has kin in Ohio; you'll see the emergency contact information written down on page four," the lawyer explained.

Blaine gritted his teeth. Of course his father's lawyer would never explain the truth- that it was easier to hide Blaine and his transgressions several states away than let him stay in New York and risk one of his wealthy clients finding out that Mr. Anderson- church deacon, prominent lawyer, pillar of society Mr. Anderson- had a wayward son.

Although, to be quite honest, 'wayward' was putting it mildly.

He dug his fingernails into the arms of his chair. If only his sister were here. She wouldn't let this happen. After all, she had been a bit of a hellion herself- dancing with every boy who asked her, raising her hemlines to distinctly unladylike heights, knocking back shots of whiskey like a man instead of delicately sipping champagne.

But Francey was married now, traveling through Europe on a grand tour with her newly minted husband for their honeymoon.

"_We'd best travel while we can, darling, while there's still a Europe to see_," she'd said gaily. He worried over her sometimes, traveling through England and Austria and France while a faraway war raged, but she sent him picture postcards like clockwork, scribbled with happy messages in her loopy cursive. For a moment he wondered if she would notice when his letters of reply abruptly vanished.

Maybe his mother would tell her. Maybe she would tell Francey his change of address. Perhaps she would even tell Francey the whole story and his sister would come home in one of her black Irish rages, storm into this Dalton Reform nonsense and withdraw him immediately so he could go live with her and her husband in their townhouse on Park Avenue.

But no. His mother would never tell. He doubted his motlher even knew where he was.

His mother loved him. He knew that. But Anna Anderson had grown up sheltered in the South, sipping mint juleps under broad branches of magnolia trees, and while he knew his parents cared for each other, a shy Southern belle and a silent Yank lawyer did not a perfect marriage make.

For a childish, selfish moment he thought of his mother sitting alone in their house in the Hamptons, in the morning room writing letters or in the garden with a bit of embroidery in her hand. He wished he could go back to his childhood, quiet and idyllic, playing croquet in the back lawn with his sister, both of them small and round-faced, dressed in their linen summer clothes, giggling as they chased after their colored balls while their mother looked on and smiled and clapped.

But he was seventeen, not seven, and in the past ten years it had become much, much harder to get anyone's attention. Much less his own parents'.

Blaine glanced up, a sullen look under his lashes, as Dr. Trevelyan slid a brown paper folder across the desk at him. "Your student handbook, Mr. Anderson," he said. "You need to understand what's expected of you."

He glared at it; his father's lawyer nudged him and he picked it up reluctantly. "His father will send him a monthly stipend," the lawyer said. "And if he finds himself in any sort of trouble again…Mr. Anderson has made it quite clear that he is willing to pay whatever is necessary to keep his son here."

Dr. Trevelyan turned his gaze towards Blaine. "I see," he said, and his eyes sought Blaine's so firmly that he squirmed and looked away, pinned under the uncomfortable feeling that the administrator saw more than brown eyes and lashes and a fading bruise. "Well, Mr. Anderson, the other boys are in their free period at the moment. We'll have a teacher bring you up to your hall so you can get settled. Dinner is served promptly at six, followed by an evening devotional."

Blaine just looked at him. His father's lawyer nudged him. "Yes, sir," he finally said in a low voice.

Dr. Trevelyan held out his hand. "Welcome to Dalton Reform, Mr. Anderson," he said.

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><p>Blaine wandered into the dining hall more than a little bit out of his element. Obviously the room had once been some sort of ballroom, with vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers and a parquet floor, but the rafters hung thick with cobwebs like old scarves and the chandeliers gaped with empty spaces and the parquet floor was rife with chips and dents and the dirt from a thousand shoes.<p>

Long rough-hewn pine tables stood in straggling lines across the floor, flanked by narrow benches. Boys milled about everywhere, every shape and size, some with hardened eyes and big hands and some so small and apple-cheeked that they looked out of place away from their mothers. Their clothing was faded and ill-fitting; their shoes were worn and scuffed. Blaine suddenly felt self-conscious in his own clothes- he was still sweaty and travelstained from his long train ride, but his clothes was still miles away from anything these boys wore.

He stood awkwardly to the side, watching the boys fall into place and grab their plates eagerly, the set pattern of a thousand evenings. He didn't know where he belonged.

"You're new."

It was a statement, not a question. He turned to find another Dalton boy, slim and dark haired, standing beside him with a faint smile quirking his lips. "You've got the fresh meat look in your eyes," he said. He held out a bony hand. "The name's Nick."

"Blaine," he said, shaking his hand firmly. His father always said a man's handshake spoke louder than his words.

"We've got space at our table," Nick said.

"I don't need charity," Blaine said stiffly.

Nick looked him up and down, from his wrinkled polished cotton shirt to his still mostly clean brogues, that faintly amused smile still turning up his lips. "I don't suppose you do," he said. "But you'll learn quick that at Dalton, you find your place before someone finds it for you."

He turned towards a nearby table and Blaine, without a proper response, followed him dumbly. Nick sat down with an easy grace. "We've got a new fellow among us, boys," he said, nodding towards Blaine.

The blond next to Nick looked up at him, smiling. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," Blaine said warily. Something about the vagueness of the blond's eyes unsettled him, and he sat down on Nick's other side.

"This is Blaine," Nick said. "Blaine, meet Jeff, Dylan, Trent, and Thad."

Blaine surveyed his new comrades. They nodded towards him in cool civility, as if they were as wary of him as he was of them, except for Jeff, who continued to smile at him.

"What brings you to Dalton Reform, Blaine?" Thad asked.

Blaine shrugged and looked down at the bowl of stew in front of him. "This is disgusting," he said.

"It's better than what we usually get," Dylan offered.

"Don't mind him, he's an eternal optimist," Thad said with a roll of his eyes. "If you don't want it, we'll take it."

Blaine pushed the bowl away. Trent grabbed it eagerly and scooped Blaine's discarded dinner into equal portions between the other boys, although it seemed Nick and Jeff got a little more than the others.

Nick still had that phantom of a smile. "You won't do that tomorrow night," he remarked. "You'll learn."

"Dalton Reform is a complicated hierarchy," Thad said, gulping his dinner down eagerly. He used his spoon to point to a table near a window. "You've got the smart ones that study all the time in the hopes of making something of themselves when they get out of here…you've got the charity cases who're here because they've got nowhere else to go…"

He swerved to point at a table in the farthest corner where a tall boy with a choppy, handcut mohawk lounged, looking down at the boys sitting around him like a king surveying his subjects. The big guy he'd seen earlier in the hall hulked beside him, his face scrubbed clean but his shirt still bloodied. "You've got the no-account rebels who will be dead or in jail by the time they're thirty."

"What are you supposed to be, then?" Blaine retorted.

Nick opened his arms wide, palms up. "We're the saints amongst the sinners," he smiled.

Blaine frowned, his eyebrows drawing down, but before he could ask what on earth he meant, the doors to the hall opened and the boy called Kurt walked in.

He didn't look like anyone around them. His clothes were just as ragged, his hair just as rakish and shaggy, but he seemed above them somehow.

Blaine had been in society; he had been surrounded by the wealthy and the titled since he could toddle. And Kurt gave him the strange, uneasy feeling that with just a bath and a change of clothes and a haircut he could stroll into any Fifth Avenue party and fit right in.

"Who's that?" he finally managed to ask.

"That's Kurt," Trent said darkly. "Kurt Dalton."

Blaine frowned. "We get orphans in here sometimes, and if they don't have a last name, they're just called Dalton," Nick explained. "He's a charity case. I don't know how long he's been here. It feels like forever."

"But someday he'll be seventeen and they'll make him leave," Jeff said.

Blaine watched as Kurt strolled across the dining hall, his pointed chin held high. Instead of the other boys who wore worn-out work shoes, Kurt wore a pair of glossy boots, laced precisely. He didn't seem like an orphan or a charity case or a reform school boy- not with the way he carried himself.

Kurt sauntered right past them, close enough that Blaine could see the bruise beginning to blossom across his cheekbone, and sat down at an empty seat at the table next to them. He beckoned for one of the remaining bowls.

"Been in solitary again, Kurt?" the blond boy across from him asked.

Kurt shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "They let me out on good behavior," he said, his voice incongruously sweet.

The little boy next to the blond, so alike they could be brothers, wriggled in excitement. "Kurt, Kurt, arentcha gonna tell us how you got here?" he asked.

The blond rolled his eyes. "Stevie, drop it," he said.

Kurt grinned without baring his teeth. "I killed a man," he said easily as he picked up a fork. "I wasn't even much bigger than you. All it took was a belt buckle and a fountain pen."

Little Stevie stared at him, bug-eyed, and Kurt laughed and took a bite of his dinner. The older blond boy jostled the child impatiently. "You know he's kidding, right?" he said. "There's no way he could kill a grown man with a buckle and a pen."

Jeff leaned in on Blaine's other side. "No one know why Kurt's here," he whispered. "He just tells stories. Nick says Kurt tells lies, but I think he just tells stories."

Blaine watched Kurt smirk as the little boy shook his head and argued with his brother. And then suddenly Kurt turned towards Blaine.

Blaine started, but he couldn't look away. Kurt's eyes were curiously beautiful- shifting colors as if they couldn't decide what they wanted to be- and even though Kurt seemed young, his eyes seemed old.

"So," Kurt said. "You must be the new boy I heard about." He made an exaggerated show of licking his fork clean, his tongue pink and shameless as he kept Blaine's gaze. "Welcome to Dalton."

"Thank you, I think," Blaine replied.

Kurt closed his mouth and set the fork down, that old, tired look in his eyes suddenly overwhelming him as they regarded each other. And then Kurt blinked and it was gone; he turned away and Blaine stared at the back of his head.

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><p>Following Nick and the others into the dormitories was just as overwhelming and disorienting as wandering into the dining hall alone. The herd of boys filtered into their rooms with a clatter of noise and obscenity-laced chatter.<p>

"What bed did you pick?" Nick asked. It sounded like he was trying to speak over the dull roar, but his voice was so thin and thready it was hard to hear. Blaine silently pointed to a bed in the corner, the covers folded at the foot and his satchel left on the floor beside it. "You're going to want to hide your personal belongings. Dalton isn't the place for nice things."

Blaine bristled, biting back a scathing reply. He was used to nice things. He was used to the fine clothes his mother selected for him and having his own bedroom and eating off china and crystal. "It's barbaric," he said finally.

Nick shrugged. "It's reform school," he said. "You'll adjust. We all did."

Blaine sat down on his bed, feeling the thin lumpy mattress sag under his weight, and glanced around. "What now?" he asked.

"Now we get ready for bed," Thad said. "Lights out at ten. They're strict about it."

Nick plucked at the buttons of his shirt. "Tomorrow we'll have classes," he said. "I'm sure you'll have your uniform by then."

"Have you met any of the teachers yet?" Dylan asked.

Blaine shrugged. "I met a Dr. Trevelyan," he said.

"He's a good man," Nick said. "He does what he can for us, but he has to answer to the school board. And they're not the most pleasant people to be around, to put it tactfully."

Blaine glanced around at the roomful of boys preparing for bed and reluctantly tugged at his suspenders. "Saturday's a work day," Thad said.

Blaine paused. "Work day?" he said.

"They don't pay for a landscaper or a maid," Nick said. "We've all got chores to do."

Blaine ground his teeth and stared down at his hands. Despite all of his efforts to rebel against his parents, he'd managed to maintain his pretty boy hands- smooth and free of calluses, the nails even and unbroken. These were not hands used to work.

"On Sunday the Ladies' Aid Society from the Baptist church likes to come in and interfere," Thad said, tossing his clothes over the foot of his bed. "They basically just putter around and meddle and act horrified by all these dreadful, dirty boys." His mouth twisted up in a sneer. "It's delightful."

"It's not that bad," Nick said serenely, stretching out the length of his bed. His legs seemed too thin to hold him up. "Dr. Trevelyan usually brings his daughter around. She's the best of the lot."

"That's true," Thad admitted. "We don't mind her."

One of the teachers poked his head in the door, the curly-haired one who had attempted to restrain Kurt in the hall earlier that day. "Lights out in five minutes, boys," he warned.

"That's Mr. Schuester, one of the teachers," Nick explained as Blaine hastily undressed for bed.

"He's one of those progressive, idealistic, bleeding-heart type teachers," Thad said. "He keeps trying to start up a boys' chorus of some kind. Thinks it'll help us, or some such rot."

"I sing," Blaine said shortly as he unlaced his shoes and tucked them under his bed.

"Well, then, he'll be delighted to have you," Thad said.

Blaine chose not to tell them about the glossy black piano at his parents' home, the one where he learned to drum out simple exercises as a chubby-fingered child and later spent school holidays rippling up and down the keys in wild melodies of his own invention, or the years spent with a private tutor training him to sing properly with round tones and perfect diction.

_I don't belong here, _he thought bitterly. _I don't deserve this._

He fell onto his bed, still uncomfortably sticky from a long day of traveling with no chance for a bath, and pulled the scratchy blanket over his legs. In a moment he kicked it aside; it was too oppressively hot to sleep covered up.

The lights switched off and the room fell in the heavy silence of the exhausted. He could hear Nick's labored, wheezing breaths and Thad tossing and turning. All he could do was stare at the ceiling, watching the journey of a spider across the rafters. He wished desperately for just a sip of whiskey, thick and comforting and warm against his throat, but his father had searched him for contraband before leaving.

No matter. If he could get booze at private school, he could definitely get booze at Dalton.

He kept staring at the ceiling, too distracted to sleep.

And then the door creaked open, and Kurt walked in.

He walked past Blaine, quiet and catlike, and paused at the bed at the end of the row. Blaine watched through his lashes as Kurt undressed slowly, stripping down to his undershorts and a thin white sleeveless shirt. But instead of crawling under his covers he sank to the edge of his bed, one slim leg folded under him, and he just looked out the window.

Blaine wished fervently that he could see his face. He could see the back of Kurt's neck, pale and slender, and the hunching of his thin strong shoulders. For a while he watched him, still and unmoving, until the next thing he realized he was opening his eyes to the first stray lights of dawn and the other boys were rousing. Kurt's bed was still made and he was already gone.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Well...so I fell prey to the bad boy trend!

I've been toying with some ideas, because I didn't want to make Blaine the bad boy and Kurt the sweet innocent boy he corrupts. I wanted them both to be bad, in their own unique ways.

And I was running laps this morning and realized..."Oh. It doesn't have to be modern."

So this story is heavily influenced by my love of sentimental, melodramatic novels from the early 20th century- particularly _Freckles _and _A Girl of the Limberlost _by Gene Stratton Porter. There's also going to be some influence from the final Anne Shirley book, _Rilla of Ingleside._

I also read _Human Croquet _by Kate Atkinson twice yesterday (don't judge! I'm a speedreader and I _love _that book!) and so some that book crept into this story- most notably the title. I highly recommend all of these books.

So...I hope this intrigues you. I'm going to get to work on the next chapter promptly. I'm going to crank this story out while my energy is still going!


	2. Waiting Desperately to Get Out of Town

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

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><p>Blaine was not pleased with Dalton Reform Academy.<p>

Not pleased at all.

He had been presented with a uniform- a navy blazer trimmed in red, gray trousers, white button up shirt, navy and red tie- all of it well-worn, out of fashion, and ill-fitting. Apparently they were left from the days when Dalton had been a posh private school for rich boys.

_The sort of school I _should _be at, _he thought unhappily as he leaned against the back wall of the school and took a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette.

The classes weren't much to speak of either. The youngest boys- Dylan told him they ranged between eight and twelve- were shuffled off to their own section of the school building, while the older boys, thirteen to seventeen years old, traveled from class to class. All the basic subjects were taught- reading, writing, arithmetic, Latin, French, music, physics- but taught poorly, with old textbooks, meager supplies, and disjointed instruction. Clearly the teachers were more preoccupied with keeping their unruly students in line than actually teaching.

That music teacher, though…Mr. Schuester, or Schue, or whatever. He seemed better than most of them. At least he tried. He had that earnest look in his eyes, like a puppy waiting for a consolatory pat. It didn't matter, though. Blaine had seen it often enough- starting out bright and shiny and hopeful like a new penny, but ending up worn out and tarnished under somebody's shoe.

After all, wasn't that what happened to him?

"Mind if I steal a drag?"

He glanced back to see Kurt standing there, one hand on his hip, the late afternoon sun glinting off his soft brown hair and touching it with brilliant red-gold lights. Wordlessly Blaine handed it over; Kurt took it easily, balancing the rolled paper between slender, callused fingers, and drew a long steady puff.

"You have the good stuff, I see," Kurt said, glancing at the glowing end of the cigarette.

"I smuggled a few of my father's packs out in my shoes," Blaine said casually.

Usually the spoiled boys at his boarding school would exclaim over his cleverness at this point, but Kurt seemed unimpressed. "The only person around here who can scrounge up a decent fag is Puck, and he seems to prefer quantity over quality," he said. His eyes flicked over Blaine, with his hair neatly combed and his shoes still polished. "I assume you don't know how dreadful poor quality can be."

"I'm learning," Blaine sighed, taking the cigarette back. His stomach unexpectedly flipflopped as Kurt's fingertips brushed against his hand. He hadn't felt like that since…well, in a long time. And he preferred not to think about it.

"So how'd your first day at Dalton go, new boy?" Kurt inquired, locking his hands behind his back as they gazed across the backyard, watching the younger boys run around with a sad excuse for a football.

Blaine shrugged. "It went," he said.

Kurt glanced at him, arcing an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you have a name, do you?" he inquired.

Blaine transferred the cigarette to his left hand and extended his right. "I'm Blaine," he said.

"Kurt," the brunet replied.

Kurt's hand was thin and cool and surprisingly soft in his, despite the rough spots marking his palm and fingertips. He gripped tightly- a man's handshake- but his skin felt delicate and silky. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, oddly polite, his voice still strangely sweet in contrast to his rough appearance. "So what brings you here?"

Blaine dropped Kurt's hand and drew his cigarette back up to his lips. "Let's just say that I'm not the perfect son that dear old Dad intended," he said. "I managed to get myself kicked out of boarding school in New York and he had me sent here instead."

Kurt's lips quirked in a mirthless smile. "Your father, hm?" he said. "How…nice of him."

Blaine shrugged and blew a thin steady stream of smoke between his lips. "I just can't wait for my sister to find out what he did," he said. "She'll kick his ass when she comes back from Europe. Get me out of this place."

Kurt's lips twisted further. "A father in New York, a sister in Europe," he said. "Let me guess…a mother in a summer home somewhere?"

Blaine looked at him sharply, raising an eyebrow. "We have a winner," he said.

"It's a gift," Kurt said.

Blaine flicked cigarette ash onto the dirt below. "So you know where I came from," he said. "What about you?"

Kurt stared across the yard, clasping his hands behind his back again. "Busted for prostitution in Cincinnati," he said lightly. "A cop picked me up on a street corner and the next thing I know I was here.."

Blaine blinked. "I thought you killed a man with a belt buckle and a fountain pen," he said.

Kurt plucked the cigarette out of Blaine's hand, took a long smooth drag, and blew it out lazily. "Maybe I did," he said. He handed the cigarette back and sauntered away, humming to himself.

Blaine felt the slight burn of the cigarette butt against his fingers and dropped it hastily to the ground. He stamped it out with the heel of his shoe, but his eyes were still trained on Kurt as he walked away.

"Cigarettes aren't allowed on campus, you know," he heard a voice say.

Blaine jammed his hands in his pockets as Nick strolled up to him, Jeff following eagerly at his heels. "So?" he said.

Nick smiled. "So the other boys are going to find out you have contraband and follow you until they can get some," he said. "That's how it works at Dalton."

"Nick doesn't smoke, though," Jeff said. "Neither do I."

Blaine looked down at the sad remains of his cigarette. "I shouldn't do it," he said. "It's a filthy habit."

"So why do it?" Nick asked gently.

Blaine hunched his shoulders and leaned against the broad brick wall. "It's a habit," he said.

Nick leaned against the wall beside Blaine, his dark eyes flicking back and forth over the poor excuse for a football game going on in front of them. "We'd better get inside," he said. "It's nearly time for dinner, and I know you won't pass it up tonight," he said. "I'm sure you're hungry by now."

Blaine, who had eaten his breakfast but turned up his nose at lunch, was most definitely hungry, but at least his stomach didn't destroy his pride by growling loud enough for Nick to here. "Maybe," he said.

"You'll want to eat," Nick said. "Tomorrow is our work day." He pointed towards the south lawn. "See that garden? You'll probably be working there."

Blaine stared, dismayed, at the sea of weed-choked plants in the distance. Nick smiled and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You'll adjust soon enough," he said. "Just think of it as a new habit."

* * *

><p>Blaine was starting to get the feeling that Nick was usually right about things. It was infuriating. And slightly embarrassing.<p>

He had been dragged out of bed before the sun was even peeking up, handed a pair of trousers and a shirt so old and threadbare he felt he would be better off naked, and shuffled off to the gardens with a slice of toast in his hand to serve as breakfast. When he had tried to say something to the teacher handing them dirt-caked work gloves, he was told that "idle hands are the devil's handiwork" and dismissed abruptly.

Now the sun was high overhead, pounding down on his obviously sunburned neck. His curls were damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead and his shirt clung to his wet skin. Dirt caked thickly over his knuckles and under his fingernails. He was _disgusting._

Beside him Jeff worked quickly, his fingers practiced and nimble as he dug weeds out from under the sprouting potato plants and tossed them into a sloppy pile at the end of the row. Blaine rocked back on his heels and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, doubtless smearing dirt across his skin. "Aren't you tired of this?" he asked, exasperated.

"No," Jeff said. "I don't mind it."

Blaine sighed heavily and squinted as he scrabbled helplessly at another weed. Jeff might not mind it, but he certainly did.

The blond whistled, light and surprisingly melodic, but it grated on Blaine's already frayed nerves. "Can't you stop that?" he said impatiently.

Jeff blinked, his hands halting in mid-grab. "Stop what?" he asked.

"Never mind," Blaine mumbled.

He turned back to the weeds and yanked a handful out viciously, showering himself in dirt. Jeff laughed, not unkindly, but Blaine huffed in irritation.

"A wee bit frustrated, are we?"

Blaine shielded his eyes and looked up. Kurt loomed above him with a smirk playing on his lips and a fence rail slung across his shoulder.

His decidedly _bare _shoulder.

He'd seen some of the boys strip their shirts off, mostly the older ones sent to repair the fence around the horse pasture or work on the new well. Somehow he hadn't thought that Kurt would be one of them.

Nevertheless, there he was. The waistband of his trousers drooped around his narrow waist and the bare skin of his smooth chest was pink and gold and freckled in the summer sun. He wasn't muscular like the older, bigger boys, but the lines of his chest and stomach were firm and clear.

Kurt grinned. "If your mouth stays open any longer, the flies'll get in," he said.

Blaine clamped his mouth shut. "How do you people put up with this?" he asked.

Kurt shifted his weight from one leg to the other; the waistband of his trousers dipped further, shamelessly hanging around the cuts of his hips. "Put up with what?" he inquired.

"This," Blaine said, gesturing broadly. "The sun, the dirt, the godawful food. Why do you put up with it?"

Kurt crouched in front of him, his elbows resting on his bent knees. He was so close that Blaine could see the sun glinting off his lashes and the light flecks of freckles across the bridge of his nose. "Because some of us, Mister Anderson, weren't given a damn choice in the matter," he said sweetly.

Blaine blinked. Kurt straightened, still balancing the fence rail across his smooth shoulders, and walked away, his slender bare feet leaving light footprints in the soft dirt of the garden.

"Stop staring, Anderson, get back to work."

He glanced up, squinting in the sun. A tall boy, the oldest student he's seen yet, stood above him grinning as he leaned on a shovel. "Get back to work," the tall boy repeated, his wide smile easing the pain of being ordered around by a stranger. "We're not keeping you to lollygag."

Blaine opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when he noticed the boy's pinned-up sleeve. He stared for a second. The boy- he didn't seem like a boy, though, he had to be in his late teens- caught his glance but didn't react. "Jeff, my jo, you nearly done?" he asked, his voice lilting in an out-of-place accent.

Jeff flashed that same vague smile. "Nearly," he said, holding up another handful of weeds.

"The dinner break'll be here soon, boys," the one-handed young man said, hefting his shovel and heading back down the rows.

Blaine leaned over to Jeff. "Who's that?" he asked.

"That's Terence," Jeff said cheerfully. "He's been here since forever. Like Kurt. Except that Terence came from a big orphanage in Chicago where they couldn't keep him. And nobody knows where Kurt came from."

"What happened to his…" Blaine's voice trailed off and he just helplessly wiggled his fingers.

Jeff tilted his head till realization dawned. "Oh, he hasn't got one," he said. "He told me there was an accident when he was a baby. But that's why they sent him here. Nobody wanted to adopt him. And then he got too old to stay here, so Dr. Trevelyan kept him on as his assistant, because he couldn't find a job. Most people want a boy with two hands, see."

Blaine tried to picture growing up at Dalton, spending Christmas and birthdays and summer holidays on its musty campus. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be trapped here, unable to leave because there was no place left in the real world for him.

_I want to go home, _he thought, and hot childish tears burned behind his eyes. He managed to bite them back before they fell, though.

He was Blaine Anderson, and he had an image of ill-repute to maintain.

* * *

><p>So far the little town church had proved to be an excellent place to take a nap unnoticed.<p>

Westerville Baptist Church was like any other- white walls, maple pews, polished floors with a worn red aisle runner. The glossy cross stood at the front, lovingly illuminated by creamy candles while midmorning sunlight gleamed through the rows of narrow windows and the preacher spoke in his dull soothing voice.

Blaine, however, did not appreciate his surroundings nearly as much as he appreciated tipping his head forward in an attitude of prayer and falling into exhausted sleep.

He woke up to Nick's sharp elbow in his side as the congregation rose for the final hymn and benediction and hastily fumbled to his feet. The Dalton boys filled the back rows of pews, away from the pious eyes of the other parishioners, as if the sight of their worn navy blazers and ill-fitting gray trousers might offend them.

They shared hymnals down the rows, three or four boys to a book, some singing, most not. Nick sang in a warm bright tenor, broken at the verses by stifled coughs. Jeff sang too, happily disregarding rhythm. Blaine chose to gaze up and down the rows at the other students- Noah Puckerman glaring at the preacher with his arms across his chest and his lips clamped shut, Sam Evans holding the hymnal where his small brother could follow along, Dave Karofsky staring blankly down at the floor.

He caught sight of Kurt at the end of his row, hands folded meekly but his blue eyes narrowed. Kurt didn't sing either. For a moment Blaine tried to catch his eye, but Kurt merely looked straight ahead, clearly bored and disinterested.

The preacher pronounced the benediction and the church scattered- small children bolting out the doors with pent-up energy, teenagers migrating towards each other, women gathering in clusters to discuss Sunday dinners and new dresses and what their little ones were up to. Blaine lingered in his pew, sliding his hands into his pockets as the Dalton boys idled by the back doors.

A bevy of what might have been butterflies or flowers or perhaps just pretty girls brushed past them, seemingly unconcerned by the Dalton boys staring at them. Blaine watched them idly. He had never much concerned himself with girls. A few times when he was younger he had tried picturing himself courting a girl, marrying her, coming home to her and their collection of small children. It always ended with an image of himself looking entirely too much like his father and a faceless woman turning towards him, and needless to say it was not very pleasant.

Of course, in the time since then he had gone off to the first of many boarding schools and met…

…well, he preferred not to think about that.

One of the girls, a tall cool blonde in a lavender muslin dress, hurried past them quickly as if she was afraid to be too near them, but her companion stopped. She was a little slip of a thing, dressed in white eyelet with her red-gold hair pulled back neatly in a ribbon, and she held out her arms to little Stevie Evans. The boy wriggled away from his big brother and ran to be embraced. Soon the girl was surrounded by the smallest Dalton boys, all of them clamoring for her attention, and she laughed.

Nick leaned over to Blaine. "That's Louisa Trevelyan, Dr. Trevelyan's daughter," he explained.

"She's the swamp angel," Jeff reported.

Blaine did a doubletake. "She's a what?" he said.

"She likes to spend her time in the Limberlost swamp," Nick said. "She catches moths and butterflies and studies them. Terence took to calling her the swamp angel a few years back, and it just stuck."

Jeff bounced on the toes of his scuffed shoes. "Sometimes Dr. Trevelyan asks some of the boys to go with her in the swamp so she'll be safe," he said. "Terence always goes."

Nick smiled. "That he does," he said.

Blaine watched as the redheaded girl chatted brightly with the boys clustered around her, as if she was at a party surrounded by eligible suitors instead of the back of a church with juvenile delinquents. _I think my sister would like her, _he thought.

The redheaded girl moved towards his row and Blaine straightened out of habit, but she walked straight over to Kurt. The two of them spoke quietly, and a shy smile played across Kurt's lips. Blaine stared. It changed Kurt's expression completely. He seemed different, warm and sweet instead of sharp and icy. The girl took his hand in both of hers and squeezed tightly, earning another genuine smile from Kurt. Blaine stared, transfixed.

Jeff leaned across the top of the pew. "Lucy!" he called. "Lucy, hullo!"

She looked up and crossed to Jeff. "Good morning, darling," she said, patting his cheek. "How are you?"

"I'm good," he said. "And Nick is good too."

Lucy turned to Nick, one eyebrow raised expectantly, and the dark-haired boy smiled. "I'm a little better, I think," he said.

"Good," she said, pressing his hand warmly. "Tell my father if you're not well again, all right?"

Jeff tugged impatiently on her sleeve. "Lucy, we've a new boy," he said. "He's only been here two days."

She turned towards him and he straightened his tie. "My name is Blaine Anderson," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You may call me Lucy, if you'd like," she said, her blue eyes dancing. "My, but you've got nice manners. What brings you to Dalton?"

He shrugged. The offhanded, carefully crafted stories of rebellion he'd offered the other boys suddenly seemed too inappropriate. "My father sent me," he said lamely.

"Well, I hope things go well for you," Lucy said.

A pretty woman with light hair and a toddler in her arms paused by their row. "Louisa, darling, it's time to go," she said.

"Coming, Mother," Lucy said. She flashed one last smile at them. "It's lovely to meet you, Blaine. I'll see you later, fellows."

She turned lightly on her toes, stopping only long enough to pat Kurt lightly on the arm as she left. The soft look in Kurt's eyes lingered for a moment but faded quickly, so fast that Blaine wondered if he imagined it.

"She's a little forward, but she's a good girl," Nick said quietly. "I've heard her father's letting her take suitors. Whoever'll marry her will be a lucky man."

Suddenly the soft look in Kurt's eyes made sense and Blaine's stomach twisted. "I suppose half the school's in love with her," he said, trying to sound flippant and failing. "Even Kurt."

"Oh, Kurt doesn't love Lucy, not like that," Jeff said. "Kurt likes boys."

Nick whipped around. "Jeff, don't talk about that," he scolded. Jeff frowned like a kicked puppy.

"He…he what?" Blaine stammered.

Nick sighed. "It's a poorly kept secret at Dalton, but Kurt…is not interested in girls," he said, clearly trying to stay tactful. "It's gotten him in trouble before."

Blaine stared at Kurt, his stomach still tightening. Memories flooded back to him, memories of hiding in empty classrooms and dark hallways for stolen kisses and soft loving words that he wasn't supposed to have.

_I thought I was the only one, _he thought.

He followed the other Dalton boys out of the church, his mind still tumbling through his disorganized thoughts. Ahead of him he saw Kurt push at Noah Puckerman to get out of his way; Puck shot back some kind of argument and Kurt bared his teeth. His eyes were hard and glassy again, his jaw jutting out like an angry dog's.

Blaine thought back to the softness of Kurt's expression just a few minutes earlier, and for a moment he entertained the notion of being the one to bring the soft light in those blue eyes back.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

MAY I PLEASE POINT OUT THAT I WROTE THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS IN UNDER 24 HOURS?

Okay. Anyways.

Dear god, I want to pop Blaine across the face. SO SPOILED. KLJSDLFJL. YOU LITTLE BRAT. GET OVER YOURSELF. YOU'RE NOT THAT AWESOME RIGHT NOW, LITTLE DUDE.

And Kurt. Kurt is so fun to write right now. He's acting all mysterious and stuff. And also innocently sexy, strutting around with his shirt off.

A _lot _of this story is turning out to be influenced by _Freckles _by Gene Stratton-Porter. I seriously doubt any of you all have ever heard of her, much less read her books, which depresses me. But I'm borrowing from her liberally.

Also, Nick and Jeff. NICK AND JEFF. I need to take them home with me. (No, there won't be Neff in this story, though.)

And Sam and Stevie being adorbs. And Noah being pissed about being in a Protestant church when he's Jewish. And Mr. Schue still being a terribly inept teacher, even in the 1910s.

THIS STORY IS GIVING ME FEELINGS.

Also, hopefully chapter three will be up tomorrow. If people actually like this story. It's so weird! But I am having so much fun with it...

...but it's going to get sad and klsdjfldsjl I don't want to write the sad bits.

In the meantime I will just listen to the six and a half hour playlist I've created and write about Kurt and Blaine being bad boys full of unspoken sexual tension.

Mmmmm...


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